


A Test of Patience

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Arrow of Carnations [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Josephine's handling all the politics today, Romance, Rude Orlesians, Wine, and the angry drinking of said wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Josephine's patience nearly runs out when dealing with a very trying Orlesian delegate.





	A Test of Patience

"I must say, Lady Josephine, the Inquisitor has amassed an _eclectic_ group around her," the Comte says as they return to the great hall. He knocks snow off his boots and walks directly to the closest hearth, pushing past a group of dwarven stonemasons. He pulls off his gloves and warms his hands over the fire. 

Josephine follows, untying her cloak. "It is very diverse, yes." 

"Wherever did she come across them all?" the Comte continues. "To imagine, Grey Wardens and peasants, Qunari and Tevinter mages, the faithful and the faithless, the noble and the common, all working together, united by a cause. How you've put aside your differences without coming to blows, I shall never know. Perhaps Orlesian politics can learn from you." 

"Perhaps," Josephine says. "Now, Comte Bordelon, if you please—" 

"I shall do portraits of them all!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing across the entire great hall. "It is a must! Lady Ambassador, I shall stay until my work is complete—" 

Josephine rubs the bridge of her nose and resist the urge to sigh. "My dear Comte, while it is a honour for you to produce the Inquisitor's portrait, I assure you it is unnecessary—" 

"Unnecessary? My dear Ambassador, it is the _most_ necessary thing in the world! How can the world know of your great deeds if the world does not know what you _look_ like?" 

"Though Skyhold is isolated, the Inquisition certainly is not," Josephine says, folding her arms. "Our agents are spread throughout southern Thedas. The Inquisitor has marched across Orlais. She has visited Val Royeaux, she will have an audience with Empress Celene in the coming month. I assure you: the world knows who we are, with or without your… portraits." 

The Comte's mouth forms a thin line. "You do understand the great honour I am bestowing upon you?" 

"You are our guest, monsieur," Josephine replies. "The Inquisition has been your gracious host for two weeks. When the Inquisitor received your initial proposal, she was hesitant to accept, but _I_ talked her into it. If anything, it is I who have bestowed the honour upon you." 

The Comte laughs hesitantly. "I think, madame," he says, "you and I have very different ideas as to what the 'great honour' is. I am the most famous painter in southern Thedas, yes?" 

"If by southern Thedas you infer Orlais—" 

"Ah, but what in southern Thedas has Orlais not touched with her beauteous hand?" 

"Too much," Solas says, emerging from the rotunda. He towers above the Comte, hands clasped behind his back, shadow looming in the firelight. "It is an empire, after all." 

The Comte snorts. "And who might you be, elf? I see the disrespect rampant among your kind—" 

"This is Solas," Josephine says, quickly cutting him off. "Arcane advisor to the Inquisitor and a dear friend." 

"A mage, too?" The Comte clicks his tongue. "Ambassador, I have little desire to be addressed by the Inquisitor's elven manservant." 

"I have little desire to speak with painters who lack basic understanding of colour and composition," Solas replies. "You claim you are the greatest painter in Orlais. I don't doubt that claim. But if it is true, then truly the Orlesians have lost what little understanding of art they had over the past three hundred years." 

The Comte flushes beet red. "You dare—" 

"I never dare," Solas says. "I only speak the truth." He bows politely to Josephine. "My lady." He disappears into the rotunda and closes the door. 

Josephine escorts the enraged Comte to his suite, silently cursing herself for escalating the situation. She mollifies herself with the knowledge that the entire great hall heard the Comte's outburst. The other delegates—many of them wealthy nobles in positions of power across Orlais and Fereldan—had heard his words. Judging from their looks, they would make their disapproval known. Comte Michel de Bordelon would likely find his studio void of commissions when he returned to Val Royeaux. 

Even so, she was thoroughly displeased with the situation. She left the steaming Comte in his rooms and ordered his dinner to be brought to him there. Likely he would leave Skyhold the very next day, saving the rest of the inner circle from his artistic "talents." 

Exhausting from escorting the Comte around all day, Josephine retires to her quarters. She kicks off her shoes, undresses to her chemise and pours herself a glass of wine. She stands in front of her hearth, sipping the wine, her anger stewing. 

There is a quick rap on her door. She opens it. 

"Wine already?" Solas asks, stepping around her. 

Josephine shuts the door. "It has been… a trying day," she says, sipping slowly. 

"With the Comte, I take it?" 

"Forgive me," Josephine says, "but how can someone be such a complete and utter _arse?_ Maker have mercy, the man is as abhorrent a person as he is a painter." 

Solas raises an eyebrow. "I have not seen his work with my own eyes, but I believe you." 

"You haven't seen the monstrosity?" Josephine sips more wine. Her glass is half-empty. But you goaded him about it!" 

"Yes," Solas says, taking the cup from her hands. "Because he insulted you." He takes her chin in his hand and kisses her gently. 

When their lips part, Josephine stands still in a quiet daze. "He insulted you, too." 

Solas shrugs. "I hardly care about that—" 

"He insulted you because you're an elf," Josephine says, grabbing his arm. Her fingers wrap tightly around him, digging into his tunic. 

"Many people have done that, _vhenan,"_ Solas says gently. "Humans, Dalish, city elves—they have all thrown insults my way with candor. I am hardly riled by it. There are more important things to think of." 

Josephine takes her glass back and takes another sip. "He called you the Inquisitor's _elven manservant."_

"He did." 

_"Manservant._ Do you even look like you could be anyone's a manservant?" 

"I have it on good authority from Varric that I look like 'an apostate hobo.' I suspect those are Dorian and Vivienne's criticisms." 

Josephine finishes her glass and crosses the room, pouring herself another glass. "Ridiculous," she fumes. "Simply ridiculous." 

"It is," Solas says, following her. 

"I could end him, easily," Josephine says. "I know his aunt. She controls his estate. The right word to the right person at the right party—" 

Solas takes her hands. "I would not see you torture yourself for this," he says. "The man is a buffoon. That is beyond your control. Do not waste your time on his behalf." 

Josephine sighs, the tension releasing from her all at once. She collapses into his chest. He holds her, a hand caressing her beck, the other her back. He kisses the top of her head. "Better?" 

"For now," she breathes, eyes closed. "Until I have to deal with him in the morning." 

"But that is in the morning." He lifts her chin and kisses her. "This is moment is now." 

"Hmm, it's a nice one," she murmurs against his lips. She pulls away, hands slipping around his neck. "Do you want to see the monstrosity?" 

He raises an eyebrow. "Is it here?" 

"I had nowhere else to put it," Josephine says. "Ashara can never see it, she will burn the tavern to the ground—or something as extreme—if she ever lays eyes on it." 

Solas chuckles. "Consider my curiosity piqued." 

Josephine lets go and sweeps across the room, her chemise flowing about her. She passes her bed and grabs a silk robe, throwing it about her shoulders and tying it at the waist. It shimmers as it swirls about her, the golden material catching the firelight. Perhaps not the most practical garment, but it is rather beautiful. She enjoys wearing it, especially around Solas. 

She ducks into the nook behind her bed and pulls out the painting—or, rather, the monstrosity. The canvas was so large, she had trouble lifting it herself, but she wrangled it out of the nook and set it against the foot of her bed. 

Solas raises his eyebrows. "Well," he says. "That is… certainly a monstrosity." 

Josephine nods. "Now you see why Ashara can never see it?" 

Solas pours himself a glass of wine. He sips it as he studies the portrait. "I'm not sure what happened to her face," he says. "Is she supposed to look like she wants to devour the viewer?" 

"I'm more concerned about what's happened to her breasts," Josephine says, picking up her discarded glass. "They are far larger and more—" 

"Buoyant?" 

"Buoyant than any breasts should ever be." Josephine frowns into her glass. "Ashara's a petite woman, her breasts aren't even large to begin with!" 

Solas chuckles. "What will you do with it?" 

Josephine sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. "I don't know," she replies, wrapping a hand around her glass, fingers tapping along the surface. "My inclination says 'burn it', but Michel is a difficult man. If we rid ourselves of it, he would certainly come back one day and demand to see it."

Solas sits beside her. His hand finds hers. He laces their fingers together. "Is he that important to the ever-changing tapestry of the Orlesian aristocracy?" 

"I don't know," Josephine replies. "I simply don't. The civil war continues. There is hope for an end with the peace talks at Halamshiral, but there is no knowing how those will end. Ashara must put her support behind one claimant or the other. Bordelon supports Gaspard. If she sides with him, he will quickly ascend in court. And then… yes, he will become an important part of the Orlesian tapestry." 

"And if she supports Celene?" 

Josephine rests her glass against her cheek. "Then he remains unimportant. A member of the lower aristocracy. A fool, howling at how unfair the world has treated him." 

Solas falls silent. "And who would you support, in all of this?" 

"There is no good answer," Josephine says. "Gaspard has the military strength. He has the men and the reputation we need to combat Corypheus' forces. But Celene has carved out her power on the Orlesian throne. She is willing to make alliances no one else would have thought of. All I can think is what happens _after_ we win? What happens after Corypheus? I know that can't be Ashara's concern now, we must first win this fight, but…" She shakes her head. "Give Gaspard the throne and Orlais will expand its borders. He is hungry for power and he has the strength to do it. He will take Ferelden, Nevarra, the Free Marches, all through conquest if he must. Celene does not have those notions. She will be better Orlais through other means." 

"Have you told this to the Inquisitor?" 

"Not yet," Josephine says. She takes a sip of wine. "I don't know how. All she can think of is Corypheus. And destroying him." She squeezes Solas' hand. "I can see a future, decades from now, when there are only two powers on this map. Orlais and Tevinter. And the thought of that terrifies me." 

"It will not come to pass," Solas says. He kisses her forehead. "It is a possibility, but only one of many. There are greater ones, kinder ones. Ones that people like you will work towards. Of that I am sure." 

Josephine smiles. Solas wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her to him. She rests her head against his chest and closes her eyes. 

His heartbeat thunders in his chest. 

She can't imagine how she ever managed without him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comte Michel de Bordelon is a recurring OC of mine. Regardless of the worldstate, his portraits of the Inquisitor are always awful.


End file.
